In the Heat of the Night
by honmyo SeaGull
Summary: During the journey. Night. Rain. Hakkai. Gojyo. No sleep but memories. Selfindulgence based on Fated Guys. Songfic kinda.


**Disclaimer : **the (fated)guys aren't mine, the song isn't mine either. Well, I don't own much in this fic, now that I think of it. But, hell, I had fun at least…

**Thanks: Chris (Cesmith on the web, ladies and gentlemen), I owe you a big BIG thanks for taking the time to help me with the language in this one (believe me, minna-san, I needed it badly). Domo arigato for your patience and your time. Wish I could return the favor one day, in a way or another…**

**Summary** : During the journey. Night. Rain. Hakkai. Gojyo. No sleep. Memories. « Fated guys »-based self-indulgence. Songfic (kinda).

**« In the Heat of the Night… »**

**oOo Gojyo oOo**

I should sleep.

Under the tent, we were all supposed to be sleeping. _I_ would be if not for a particular _saru_. A _baka saru_. A snoring _saru_. Fortunately, a few minutes ago, he stopped. Thank _kami-sama_. Or thank the _namaguza bouzu_, rather. Asleep as well, he slapped the _gaki_ in his slumber. This monk is as dreadful sleeping as awake. True story. I could peacefully go back to sleep, thus.

But no. It's raining, too. I don't really mind, but Hakkai still does. I can't see him, I can hardly make out his lying form on the ground just beside me, but I feel his tension increasing. Sometimes he shivers faintly in his thin sleeping bag, even in the heat of the night, even if the raindrops dying on the earth are warm. I move a little so my back makes contact with his through our covers. In the old days, it had sometimes brought him some comfort. For a few minutes, there is only the mute acceptance of this contact and the slight easing of the tension in his body. But it doesn't last. He suddenly gives up all pretense and simply stands up, as silently as possible. He reaches for the exit of the tent. For a split second the scent of wet earth invades the confined space and the rumor of rain grows stronger. But then the flap is closed again. He is gone.

I should sleep.

But I'm not sleeping. I hate these nights when I am not enough and when he confronts the fucking rain head on. I hate these nights when he leaves us – me - behind. Were we in our house (our _home_), we would just have talked it over to make the time fly and the rain go away more quickly. But we are not. The others are sleeping now but could wake up any moment. At times like these, I miss our tranquility of before the journey…Our little house secluded in the forest. The two of us, and the silence around. I swear, if I have to, I will even follow him into the fucking donwpour to bring him back if he doesn't return quickly…

I should sleep. I know.

But I'm so predictable. While waiting for him, I will think again of the rain from three years ago and of that time I found him.

I can as well have a smoke.

**oOo Gojyo still oOo**

The place breathed loneliness, going along well with my private thoughts. Dull darkness of rain, muffled sounds. End-of-world atmosphere. Not like I thought I had much of a future, anyway… Come to think of it, it's almost a miracle I saw him. Luckily, he was sprawled right in the middle of the road. I don't even know why I stopped walking. Why would I have been bothered looking at a dead man?

One green eye pierced through the gray night, and there it was. All I saw, then, was his smile. And **I **was already** caught in the crossfire of a silent scream. **_His_ silent scream which I could almost hear above the thundering noise of the rain. The violence's stain and the aura of death still lingered on him: I could see both in the torn clothes, in the wounds, in the blood on him, flowing and how so slowly mingling in the mud…As clear as an open book. Forsaken story which the ground seemed about to swallow. But I wasn't interested in the man's story. Because I heard _MY_ silent scream, too, as I saw for the first time a ravaged body whose wounds were such a telltale of a destiny as twisted as mine. It was a feeling of kinship. Taboo children aren't supposed to experience kinship. Supposed not to exist, taboo child should never meet his alter ego, taboo child doesn't belong…And he was like me. Somehow.

It was a strange prize, for a gambling night. But it was mine as far as nobody would claim it. I brought it back home.

I'm no doctor. I didn't care whether he was sleeping, unconscious or buried alive in a coma. I sat by his side and… looked at him. All those days, we were treading the slight frontier** where one man's nightmare is another man's dream. **How could I have called it otherwise?I couldn't assume that he had willingly _chosen_ to end up here, in my little house. Circumstances weren't that happy. But in a very selfish way, it was perfect for me. This presence.Somebody who was sleeping. Somebody who couldn't see me and hate me for what I was (and there was the memory of a smile. Only my brother could smile while looking at me). Somebody who couldn't leave my bed, my home, my life. The end of loneliness without anything to give in exchange, except a place in a narrow bed. The strange thing is, that nothing would really change when he would open his eyes. For a few weeks, he wouldn't leave my bed, my home, or even my life.

The only fear left before he woke up was Death. The ultimate thief of precious things. That's why I had to be watchful. If I didn't have to fight with Death to keep him, I wouldn't have so quickly considered him as Mine. Property is an instinct a _youkai_ can understand as well as a human. Losing is unthinkable.** Cause **without this sleeping man's breath** you're **only** living alone in the heat of the night.**

But, in fact, all these days, I was rather helpless. All that was left were little gestures. **Pull the covers up high and pray for the morning light. **Because hope was easier to feed in the daylight. The slow raising of a ribcage easier to catch with the eye. And one day, eventually, there were slight frowns that might reveal a dream in the silent soul, like ripples on the face… I knew, then, that he was bent to wake up at last. No real joy. No real fear. Just the wait. And I already knew I wouldn't ask anything of him. No story, no name. It's only reciprocity : that way I won't have to tell anything about me either.

**oOo Hakkai oOo**

I should sleep.

But the call of rain is too strong tonight. It happens sometimes. The sound alone of the pit-pat of water on our shelter is almost enough to eat away sanity. Enclosed in the fabric cocoon of the tent, the sound is abstract, even more ominous. It's only rain, I keep telling to myself. Not the sound of the past (which is not even mine: Cho Hakkai isn't Cho Gonou anymore or so I would like to believe) coming to haunt my hearing. I know that. And to convince myself of the fact, I need the feeling of water on my feverish skin. I have to taste it. It's. only. rain.

Free to go, Sanzo said, not so long ago. If you have unresolved matters, you can leave. How come it's always raining when I think of leaving?

I should sleep, but I'm still standing here. Outside.

And I am not leaving.

Leaving to where? There is only one place where I know someone is waiting for me.

**oOo Hakkai still oOo**

He never asked anything. All these days. He had decreed I needed time to heal. I had decreed there was still something -one last thing- left to do for me in this world, since I was still alive. And in the interval of time, I let myself… floating… in this strange feeling of security. For this little time, I allowed myself to forget. But not too long.

Thinking about it, now, I don't really know who I was, then. Not Cho Hakkai yet. Not really Cho Gonou anymore. A no man's land of a soul which felt perfectly safe. Conversations were made of little nothings, on the edge of futile. Nothing much left either to hold onto. Aroma of strong coffee. Warmth of clothes that weren't mine. Color red looking at me in the eyes. It was enough. But it didn't keep the feeling of bond from growing. Poor mortals, aren't we hopeless? Cling to things as if our life depended on it.

But a past to bury was calling me. And the sinner's evidence of no future waiting for me.** In the heat of the night they'll be coming around**. I knew. That's why I wanted to leave. **They'll be looking for answers they'll be chasing you down, **I kept telling myself during the last days. As soon as I had admitted my sin, I had known there would be retaliation and punishment. It couldn't be any other way. I accepted that. And I still do not understand why I didn't leave at once, why I simply sat talking to him that day. Reluctant to let go of the presence that was growing so familiar. Reminder, I called him. And I needed that. I needed him. Confusing. The sinner has no right for need, though…

That's why is was so hard to even simply flee (leave him behind), when they came eventually, calling loud and clear the name of a sinner** in the heat of the night**. The one I didn't even have the time to tell him. They wanted Cho Gonou. A name that brought back my crimes to reality even more acutely than anything I had been able to explain to him. Being frozen on the spot, just behind the door. Feeling anguish wash over me. Suddenly helpless. And interfering, at last. Feeling the strength to scream his name in fear. No choice. Because he fought them.

_Go away_, he said, he pleaded, more like it.

They were surprised, these ones here to take me. A priest and a child. Supposedly walking symbols of rectitude and innocence, certainly, coming to taunt me.

_I don't know him_, _he is nothing to me_, I said. Releasing him from the charge of helping a criminal on the run. The only gift I had for him.

It was like erasing the short timeline of my stay here. After the first strides in the dark forest, the lightened little house I had left behind had no more consistency than a dream. As if the bleeding Cho Gonou had just stood up from this muddy path where he had collapsed one month earlier to resume his running away…

**_Where you gonna hide when it all comes down_**I wondered sometimes. But in fact, Ididn't know and I didn't care. I wasn't really running away any more, just doing what I had to do. I needed the grave. To bury Kannan. To bury myself. It was the logical path.The only one left. It was almost a strength to have the certitude with me. I was almost done. The end of it all was coming, I could see it. It was almost reassuring.

**_Don't look back don't ever turn around…_**I knew, I knew, but, all this time, I couldn't help wonder if He was alright, even if it was better to leave Him behind, cut the bridge for his own safety. How arrogant of me. I already knew how good I was at protecting people. Who is stupid enough to repeat the same mistake twice?

**Met a man with a message from the other side**. A _youkai_, I mean.It was still « the other side ». I knew what I had done. I remembered, too, what the _youkai_ who gutted me told me. I recall the bare hand with talons (my hand?) that ripped him apart. But I was no _youkai_. I couldn't believe it. It was impossible to be one of them. And I refused to think it. I couldn't face this yet.

The naked avidity on the face of the crow man was like a scream. Echoed, in my head, the shrieks of the furies he wanted to launch at me. In the mud, two dead eyes were looking straight at me, accusatory. Pinning me with their blind glare, rendered glassy by death.** Couldn't take the pressure - had to leave it behind. **No frenzy. A deadly calmIt wasn't even a feeling of guilt that made me willing to throw my life away at that very moment. But the simple understanding. One eye for one eye. Two if needed. Maybe more. Cho Gonou could understand that. His wife had been taken away. How many people had he himself taken away from others? The one who kills will be killed. It was how things were. I wasn't the only one who knew this law. The three spectators who interfered, then, did too.

They did, and how come they called that cowardice, nonetheless? He said** « It's up to you **», the unbelieving monk, the one who doesn't believe God can save Being meant to be killed -deserving to die- doesn't mean you have to let yourself get killed.Die, but fight to live until the very end. It was the strange voice of paradox (maybe his whole self is paradox). And time stops. The realm of possibility shifts. This is a choice. It's a crossroad. The question is simple. Circumstances don't matter, in the end.** You can run or you can fight. Ya that's right. **Coming from a stranger's mouth, how come it looked so easy? The loud echo of the gunshot in the heat of the night claimed the choice I had made. That second, I chose Life over Death. Even today I still can't explain to myself the reason I chose to live. Poor mortals, aren't we hopeless? Cling stubbornly to life like that? Is this the only pride left in our pain?

_How do you explain you can still go ahead, even if in a haze? Is a grave to dig enough to explain that? Or is it you choose to keep walking and then, only, try to justify this incredible and pointless stubbornness to move on in the scale of reason, by creating a purpose to reach? One step. Another. Walk. Walk. Nobody wants to stop you. They are behind, they follow. The three of them. You don't question their motives, since they don't question yours. So, you lead the way, only three steps ahead, no more, and you feel a hovering presence not so far behind, just ready to catch you if you fall, you guess… (Can you walk? Your crimson reminder had asked… All ready to steady you with his arms, with his words. But in your single-mindedness, you don't even wonder why). And two more sets of steps not so far behind his… Quiet regularity of the shuffling sounds of feet on the leaf-cluttered ground. Until you stop. Until you smell the acrid smell of old arson. Until you look. It is an overwhelming feeling of absence. As if existence was suddenly defined only by the lack, the hollowness in reality left by things gone. _

**Better leave it alone in the heat of the night**, this picture of a burned down castle, of ultimate failure, of loss, of despair. One second, it seems foolish to choose life, when there is nothing left. Nothing left, not even a purpose.

My soul was a barren territory. Stillness. Emptiness. Nothing like a merciful oblivion, however. And there is the voice. Filling silence. Filling absence. The sacred words don't matter. I'm not alone. And it's not night. As if the sun had only been waiting for a golden voice to chant, the celestial body is raising above the tips of the trees…

**oOo Gojyo again oOo**

I'm not reading for the dead, the bouzu said. No need to tell me. I almost** had to pay the piper to call the tune**. Damn monk, though. It wasn't much to ask of this man, reading a damn sutra, damnit…I don't know, it seemed obvious it suited the solemnity of the moment, the need for ceremonial. As if funerals were really meant to honor the dead! It's only a way for the living ones to cope. I put red flowers on my mother's grave, long ago. What did it mean to her? Nothing. I was soothing Me. My pain. Ritualizing the loss. The very same thing that had been denied by the blazes to the kneeling man in front of me, when he already had so little left, if not nothing. And the depth of the voice which carried so well in this new morning surprised me. It gave a strange balance to the scene. One fleeting second of just listening to the voice. Not seeking comfort in it, really. Only sharing calm. A communion that will shatter the moment silence comes back.

Still no words as the monk ushered us to move. To walk. To leave the damn place. And then the awkwardness in separation. After following all the way, till the gate of the goddamn temple, I was told (damn, _damn_, monk…) I had to let go of Him. In here, I'm not allowed to follow. My hand had understood before my mind, wildly reaching for his arm. Just self-conscious enough to grab the sleeve in the stead of the wrist itself. A tiny gesture that made me once again aware of this instinctive claim I laid on him. His quiet green gaze on my fingers rustling the fabric. His quiet green gaze meeting my eyes. Mildly inquiring. My protestations rendered pointless, though. Lifeless fingers of mine letting go of the shirt's fabric. Useless. I had nobody to fight, here. Cho Gonou was willingly surrendering. It had been almost easier during those waiting days when I really had something to confront, even if it was as powerful an enemy as Death himself. Slight bow to me. It would appear like such an impersonal gesture if I hadn't had time to figure out his mannerisms already.** Said he'd be back someday - said he'd be back _real_**** soon.** He knew it was what I wanted to hear, I thought then.I thought he was… lying.He followed the monk and his pet inside. And I let him. Maybe was it the strangest thing I had ever done. Even stranger than picking him up, that is.

Coming back home alone. On the way, searching the path for faint traces of the patch of ground where I had found him. But evidences had disappeared long ago. Reaching the cabin and rediscovering the meaning of an « empty place ». The next few days, I feelt paralyzed in my own home. Unable to occupy my own bed. Fear to move a thing. Fear to close the book he was reading only a few hours before leaving. Fear to put away (out of sight, deep inside a cupboard) the second mug. Absurd, _absurd_ fear that if I touched anything he might not recognize the place, if he eventually came back.

This place knew few visitors. I started badly as someone knocked, a few days later.

In the doorway was not the one I was waiting for. It was the monk. Even if I opened the door for him, there was no way I was inviting him to come in. He did nonetheless. Smirking on his way at the bullet hole in my door. _Teme_.

And then, he said it. No preamble. Cho Gonou is dead.

My body reacted. The anger boiled and all too soon died. It was just like looking at myself from afar, being spectator of my own emotion. I should have gotten used to the feeling by now. My father. Jien. Banri. I should know better. People don't come back, usually. Why would they? I had nothing to offer, but I was still waiting…To be saved. This admission, it was the first time I had the courage to look at it in the face. Or in the mirror, rather.

Damn, _damn_, monk. I didn't see him leave.

I just stared straight ahead. For a long time. Through the open window, I was able to catch the sight of part of the tall trees from the forest and a patch of clear summer night…Gently blowing the curtain, the night breeze was coming inside, bringing in here the heat of the night…I don't remember standing up, I don't remember reaching my bed which was his as long he was here. How incredible…

**_When you were lying alone in the heat of the night,_******_in these sheets there was still the smell of him and you could pretend as if… As if he would barge into your life again one day, brushing past your shoulder while leaning slightly to talk to you._****_When you were lying alone in the heat of the night, yearning for the body heat that was gone and pretending as if the heat of the night was his, it was easier giving substance to his absence until self-delusion. Lying to yourself until the sun came back. Because in the bright daylight, only the monk's implacable words had some materiality… Cho Gonou was gone. For days, you had to repeat it to yourself again and again in your head not to have to scream it aloud. This is the only mantra this namaguza bouzu ever taught you. And one day_ **(You'll know when the time is right)**…

**Pull the shades down low.** It was not that I needed to hide. Who would think of disturbing my meaningless little ritual? My house was almost lost in the forest, there was no living being for miles around. The monk was gone. Cho Gonou was (much more definitively) gone, too. But still, I closed the door, in my little bathroom. There is nothing shameful in cutting my hair, anyway. This is MY hair. But I feel the need to ensure the closeness of the place. Make myself comfortable in my little cocoon of private darkness. A little time of solitude. Me, myself, and my regrets. Urge or Impulse… Looking at the bloody strands falling in the sink.It's not a mourning gesture. Or I don't care to admit it, perhaps. It's not abandoning a former self, abandoning an ancient appearance like you would trade a name. It's just that I could read on my face the changes the past few days had brought. I needed to remember. Even if I had lost, I had found the strength to hold onto something. For a long time I had lacked the courage to do so, being told since childhood I deserved nothing but scars. And now I accept the scars of being taboo. And from now on, what I want (or _need_), I'll take. Deserved or not.

And then, along comes this strange guy wearing a monocle. He says his name is Cho Hakkai. And since I can't hide any more behind a red curtain of hair, the needs and desires show in my eyes, I simply ask him if he will come back home with me.

The first evening, over our two fuming mugs on the table, he looks at me. Head slightly bent to the side. Maybe intrigued by the transformation. Couldn't tell whether the green gaze was knowing or inquiring. He doesn't realize when his hand flies to my face, maybe aiming to move the stray strand that now teases my brow. Old habits die hard, my head jerks back lest new scars might appear. The offensive hand freezes and falls back on the table, its fingers curling neatly around the hot porcelain of the cup. I feel ashamed.

« They'll grow again, » he says, nodding in sympathy.

When he talks, _tadaima_, says his smile.

And in the heat of the night, that first evening (he is already sleeping), _Okaeri_ I will tell to the darkness. I've got to get used to it. The word is strange in my mouth. The sound rings weirdly in a room too used to solitude.

He has said he would stay.

**oOoOoOo**

The flap of the tent opens, and Hakkai comes in. Dripping wet.

He whispers the single word, talking only to himself or fearing he might wake the sleeping ones, perhaps.

« _Tadaima_, » he says. Very softly.

It's only a bloody tent on the road. Not a home, here. This guy is too polite for his own good, Gojyo thinks. Has _always_ thought. But:

« _Okaeri_, » he says as low as him. This is easy now. He has had a lot of practice over the last few years. Even if most of the time he was the one coming home in the dead of the night. And Hakkai the one greeting him.

Hakkai smiles, invisible in the dark.

Rain has stopped, outside.

Gojyo smiles back, invisible in the dark.

They should sleep now, really.

But Goku starts snoring. Again.

**OOOOOOOO Owari OOOOOOO**

OOOO Vocabulary (because I always forget) OOOO

_Tadaima_ : Hello (coming back home)

_Okaeri _: Good morning / good evening (when talking to the person who comes back home)

_Teme _: bastard… well, you got it : that's not nice…

_Kami-sama _: God.

_Baka_ _saru _: stupid ape.

_Namaguza_ _bouzu _: corrupt monk.

OOOOOOO Bryan Adams, Heat of the Night (album « so far so good »)OOOOOOOOO

I was caught in the crossfire of a silent scream

Where one man's nightmare is another man's dream

Pull the covers up high and pray for the mornin' light

Cause you're livin' alone in the heat of the night

Met a man with a message from the other side

Couldn't take the pressure - had to leave it behind

He said it's up to you

You can run or you can fight - (ya that's right)

Better leave it alone in the heat of the night

In the heat of the night they'll be comin' around

They'll be lookin' for answers they'll be chasin' you down

In the heat of the night

(Where you gonna hide when it all comes down)

(Don't look back don't ever turn around)

Had to pay the piper to call the tune

Said he'd be back someday - said he'd be back real soon

Pull the shades down low - you'll know when the time is right

When you're lyin' alone in the heat of the night


End file.
